My gaze lifts back to Mikhailov, cold and final.
For him? There would be plenty.
I walk toward him—slow, measured, inevitable—until we’re a breath apart.
“You threatened the only woman I have ever loved,” I say quietly.
His eyes widen.
That’s all the warning he gets.
I move—not wild, not reckless. Precise. My hand snaps his wrist; the knife skids across the gravel with a hollow clatter. I drive him back, forearm locking across his throat, concrete biting into his spine as he wheezes.
“This ends now.”
“I—I can fix it,” he gasps. “The gallery. I can retract—”
“Not good enough.”
My voice is ice.
“You’re going to dissolve every operation tied to Sienna,” I continue, pressure tightening just enough to make the point. “Every network you used her to access. Every threat you made. You’ll sign a confession stating you falsified the evidence and attempted to frame me.”
“And if I refuse?” he croaks.
I lean in, close enough for him to hear the promise in my breath.
“Then I take everything you ever loved,” I whisper. “And I make you watch.”
Silence.
Then—fear. Real fear. His bravado collapses like wet paper.
“Bring it,” Dimitri says calmly.
Roman produces a folder as if it’s been waiting its turn. Lev sets a phone on the hood of the car—recording, red light blinking.
Mikhailov’s shoulders sag.
“I’ll sign,” he says hoarsely.
Good.
I release him and step back, not because I’m finished—but because I’ve won. Dimitri takes over, efficient, merciless. Roman slides the papers forward. Lev watches the perimeter.
Mikhailov signs.
Each stroke is sloppy. Angry. Humiliating.
When he’s done, he tosses the pen aside and looks up at me with a bloody smile.
“You think this ends me?” he rasps. “Men like you always rot from the inside. She’ll see it eventually.”
That’s when I grab him again.
My hand locks around his throat, fingers digging in, lifting him just enough for his feet to scrape uselessly against the ground. His words choke off into a wet gasp. Red floods his face.
I lean in. “You don’t get to speak about her. Ever.”
